When all is said and done
by nailvarnishandbeer
Summary: Harry and Severus move to Forks after the war. Though he knows there is something hidden in his lover's past, Severus refuses to delve and thus, suffering in silence, Harry joins Forks High School where he meets Edward. Abuse. HP/SS HP/EC TWILIGHT X-OVER.
1. Chapter 1

**Plot:** Harry and his lover Severus move to Forks, following the violent culmination of the war. Friends dead, or traitorous, the two turned to each other and began a charged relationship. Severus knows something in his lover's past is secret, but chooses not to delve into the abuse as he already feels he is taking advantage of the youth. Emotionally disconnected, Harry begins high school where he meets Edward and begins to feel for the first time since the death of his beloved godfather.

**When all is said and done **

Chapter One: Not with a bang but a whimper.

Long, pale limbs stretched out beside him, a sheet haphazardly slung across the middle, offering little warmth but obscuring plump buttocks and lightly bruised hips. He shifted ever-closer, a strong arm drawing the body tight against his own.

The bundle of limbs made to draw away. The older male shushed his companion.

'Severus?'

'Go back to sleep.'

Snivellus, Greasy Bat, Sallow Git. He'd heard the names, but now here he lay, arms around a beautiful youth. Beautiful and broken. He sighed and retracted his hold, sitting up in the bed and reaching for a dusty tomb that sat atop a pile. His studies kept him calm, always had. His tempers had always been legendry, untameable. But this child, this boy-hero, had offered himself up to these mercurial moods, had offered a young, hard body upon which Severus could slake his lusts and furies. Potter and Black, he mused, must be rolling in their graves. So must the others.

Albus, Minerva, Lucius. All three dead, and all three surely disapproving from their final resting places, albeit for different reasons.

The Dark Lord had been swept from the Earth, like dust from the hearth. Several of the redheads had also perished in the fighting, and the know-it-all Mudblood too. He held his tongue though, just as he had held the boy as he sobbed and howled, beat the pillow and attempted to twist away from him. A good hard fuck had soothed them both.

He pushed down the guilt that rolled in his stomach, focussed harder on the page. An old text – wormwood was often replaced these days by a simple garden fern. But the vague feeling remained at his core, the niggling, gnawing discomfort that had plagued him since he had first lowered the teen down onto the cold floor of his office. In vivid detail, his mind replayed the flustered Gryffindor bursting into his chambers, as headstrong at fifteen as his unbearable father had been by eleven. The potions master had celebrated the death of the mutt privately, had held his tongue in public, but the boy knew his feelings, and eyes red and fists clenched he had stormed through winding corridors, down, down, down into the depths of his once-haven and now stood in the doorway, ready to confront, but in possession of no words. Severus couldn't with any certainty say who had moved first (liar, his heart hissed), but he had soon joined his student on the flagstone, teeth scraping against a smooth throat and juvenile, gnawed off nails ripping at his muscled back.

The guilt had set in soon after the now silent boy fled, had intensified when he noted a small limp the next day (though, truthfully, another part of him had relished this physical incapacitation, this visceral marking), and had almost overwhelmed him when, later, he began to notice scars, white threads stitching their war across thighs and shoulders, across a wide expanse of snowy back.

He lay the book back down, and turned to survey his prize. The young back, hunched even in sleep, faced him. He reached out to trace the silvery lines, but paused at the last moment. He would not wake the boy again.

He had never asked about these scars. Their story, unlike that of the lightening bolt that hid behind thick black locks, was not folklore. Severus had never heard mention of these, not from grandfatherly headmaster, nosy auburn-haired matriarch or disapproving nurse. The ball of guilt that churned in his stomach needed no provocation. It was a question left unasked. Even if, in his heart of hearts, in his darkest moments of self-loathing, he admitted to himself that few actions could leave such marks. That there were few names to describe such actions. Abuse, was a word that his stomach could not bear.

Thus, he pushed the feeling down and stood, slowly, from the bed.

He felt the bed shift, but his eyes remained closed until the telltale creaking of feet on stairs reached his ears.

The Boy Who Lived, the boy who defeated the darkest of the dark lords, in bed with Severus Snape. He suppressed the feeling welling up in the back of his throat, a feeling that would no doubt express itself as a rather manic giggle. It was funny how things changed.

He only had vague memories of their first coupling, of a horrible anger giving way to fear as he was thrown to the dungeon floor, as he had struggled futilely. His struggles had ceased though, as strong, talented hands began to stroke and pinch and tug, as his anger broke into pieces. He wasn't sure if he loved his professor, if he was even thankful to him for his actions. But he was with him, was by his side. Had allowed himself to be carried to nearly the other side of the world. Not that anything remained for him back in Blighty. Only memories - more bad than good. Cedric had died, then Sirius, and then nearly everybody else - a quick succession of heartbreaks that he had slowly stepped back from, began to ignore. By the time Hermione was hexed almost into pieces, he could no longer summon tears. When he had drained himself of all but the most basic of his powers and rained damnation down upon his nemesis, he could muster no relief, no happiness. He had crept away from the celebrations, the merriment and down into the dungeons. He had lay next to a warm body in a cold bed, and clung on for dear life. When they were discovered by his wolf, one of his last loves, he had clung to a pillow, buried his face in its familiar scent and ignored the angry words that two old enemies shouted, the thumps of flesh meeting flesh and the whispered pleas of his would-be godfather.

When Severus had suggested they leave – the castle, the country, the recriminations and regrets – he had nodded. Not uttered a single word. Just nodded. And now here they were in Forks.

The potions master enjoyed the solitude of the woods, the darkness of the skies. He began, in earnest to produce his wares, to ship them back to their forgotten world, to build a fortune. Harry knew not what he intended to do with his growing riches, but watched him with soft eyes as he diced and stirred and cursed in foreign tongues. Harry himself, no longer dressed, merely floated from room to room, draped only in a sheet. Met his lover's every physical need, and stared out of the window, at the greenness of the world bathed in pale light.

He still wasn't entirely sure how he found himself in jeans and boots and several layers of jumpers, stood in the administration office of Forks High School.


	2. Chapter 2

**Plot:** Harry and his lover Severus move to Forks, following the violent culmination of the war. Friends dead, or traitorous, the two turned to each other and began a charged relationship. Severus knows something in his lover's path is secret, but chooses not to delve into the abuse as he already feels he is taking advantage of the youth. Emotionally disconnected, Harry begins high school where he meets Edward and begins to feel for the first time since the death of his beloved godfather.

**A/N:** Thank you for the lovely reviews, it's been a long time since I wrote a fanfiction, but hopefully I'm going to get back into the swing of it. A couple of people asked why it was posted twice – to be honest, I just wasn't sure which section it belonged in more, Harry Potter or Twilight. Hope that's not a problem!

I probably should have listed a few warnings as well – though consensual, the relationship between Harry and Severus is, I suppose, dub/con, and Harry is underage. He is fifteen when they first sleep together, and as this is AU, the passage of war has moved quicker than canon, and he has just turned seventeen.

**Chapter 2: And so it begins **

Harry Potter was not a confident creature, never had been – regardless of the inventions of a certain acid-tipped quill – and never would be. With small steps, he made his way further into the school, overwhelmed by its normality. It had been over six years since he'd stepped inside a muggle school, but the smell of mopped halls and the aroma of reheated chips that wafted out from the kitchens was the same this side of the Atlantic as it had been on the other, way back then.

He stepped into the office and shivered as the air conditioning unit, ribbons twirling, feebly attacked his bare fingertips. Always cold, he was always cold since it began. Since he had returned from that maze, bereft of a golden-haired friend, he had shuddered and shivered and bundled himself in as many layers a possible. His thumbs, poking out of unravelled patches at the ends of his grey jumper, twiddled nervously. He couldn't quite believe he was back into a school, back among children. They were children.

After what seemed like hours, he finally reached a hand across the counter for his timetable, accepted the welcoming words of the secretary with a nod and pained smile and retreated from the office.

'Hi! You must be Harry Black.'

The teen in question almost leapt into the air, but restrained himself, instead jolting into stasis. He viewed the boy next to him uncertainly, taking in his Converse, jeans and hooded jumper. He posed no threat.

'I'm Eric, I'm the eyes and ears of this place and They've asked me to show you around.' Harry didn't ask for clarification, as the youth beside him began to wax lyrical about the hallways and playing fields and clubs of the high school. It all called to mind films and programmes he'd caught snippets of as a child. He would keep his head down, in a way he never could at Hogwarts, and just get on with it.

They had begun to walk, Eric's hand a guiding force on the newcomer's arm. Harry fought to overcome his discomfort, focussed instead on the soft scraping sound of his overlong jeans dragging along the linoleum, on the soft fray of each individual thread as it met gentle resistance and unwound. Some part of him, perhaps his heart, sympathised with the denim's plight.

*

By lunch time, Harry was wishing quite fervently, that he hadn't, on the spur of the moment, chosen the surname Black. Every time he was freshly introduced, he flinched at the short sound which served to remind him of everything he'd lost. Sirius… Sirius would despise what he had become. A weak little boy reduced to taking the comfort of a snake. Particularly this snake. And Severus. God - when he discovered that he'd not only announced their presence to the muggles, but damned him, for the foreseeable future, with the name Black… Harry shivered once more.

'So you live with your uncle?'

With an effort, Harry tore himself from his thought and focussed his eyes upon the girl opposite. Jess. He nodded, and if not quite voicing assent, grunted slightly to imply it.

'What about your parents? Where are they?'

Harry noticed the looks that others shot at the girl, no doubt as surprised by her tactlessness as he himself was. Or would have been if it were not for years spent beside Ron Weasley. He cut off his train of though swiftly. Ron… Freckles and a toothy grin, red hair fanning over his own t-shirted stomach as they lay out in the summer sun… He stomped it back down.

Before he could find an answer, Mike Newton, a letterman jacket wearing blond with an easy smile – increasingly sent Harry's way – intervened. 'So just you and you uncle, eh? That must be cool. Bachelor pad!' He grinned, and with not little surprise, Harry founded himself smiling back.

'So,' he began softly, voice disused and unsure of itself. 'What do I need to know about this place?' He angled the question towards the girl, forgiving her tactlessness.

She lit up and began, with abandon to tell all she knew about slutty cheerleaders and perverted teachers, of speedo-stuffing swimmers and the summer prom which had ended in a fistfight. Harry nodded along, neither encouraging nor discouraging the girl, merely basking in the glow of her… normality. He had never thought he would come to treasure his aunt's obsession, yet here he was, craving the normality of gossip, of chips and ketchup and pizza slices, washed down with coke in a cafeteria. He banished the whisper that noted pumpkin juice was more refreshing and shrugged off invisible hands clamped to his shoulders. Abnormal freak.

A flash of white in the gloom outside caught his eye.

'Who are they?'

*

A calm man, but not a patient one, Edward Cullen noted introspectively. Vampire, he corrected. Double history was drifting – nay, meandering – towards a close, finally, yet his very toes itched with the need to leave. Modern history this semester – he'd seen most of it first hand, had no stomach for Mrs Clarkson's jingoistic slant, her dewy eyed patriotism. It bordered, he felt, as the bell finally rang out, on the xenophobic. She'd probably never left the country, encountered these people, these places she taught…

He made his way out of the building, slow, steady, hyper-aware of his movements. When they had begun, when Carlisle had first enrolled them into a high school and set them loose, a constant mantra of slowlysoftlyhuman had buzzed unendingly through his mind. No longer. Shrugging off stares and sighing into the stagnant air, he slipped into the cafeteria and made for his siblings, sat still and stiff at 'their' table. He entertained a small smile, a lip-twitch really, when whispers of his good-looks fluttered into his mind. Flashes of conversation and thought rammed at the walls of his mental defences, very few making it through – soscaredhatemathsanddixonwillkillhopeheasksmesoonhehastoaskmesoonherskirtissoshortijustwannagodtheylookjustlikemalfoyshegetsherhairlikethatrichbitchlastsliceofpepperoni - and he focussed harder on blocking out the inanity of teenage life and sat down.

'Careful Edward,' Jasper said softly, the hint of a smile twisting his lips from their usual pained line. 'You'll get a big head.' Edward tossed a playful glare and proceeded to toy with his plate of pasta. No doubt his brother had felt a flash of pride. Git. Later, as he sat in Biology, he prayed that he could return to this scene, to the brightness and constant hum of the cafeteria, to the hissed jokes and human-mocking of lunchtime. He sat, ramrod stiff, leaning towards the open window, breath held. Who was this boy, this Harry Black from Britain? Why did his scent smell so…

Edward felt truly tested for the first time in decades, held new respect for his brother, older but newer to this unnaturalness, this game or test or whatever it was. He ignored the youth's stilted attempts at conversation. Ignored the teacher's words and weak puns. He focussed with all his might on the dark hair teen's mind and… nothing. He couldn't hear a thing.

Once more he leapt from his seat as the first waves of the ringing bell reached his ears, and strode swiftly away from the enigmatic young man with the overpowering scent.

A/N: Sorry nothing amazingly original thus far.


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, it's been a long time. I'm not sure if this has any readers left. Please let me know what you think… And remember, I've not read the Twilight books, so please don't expect this to be particularly canon! Hope you like…

**Chapter 3: Plans**

Edward sat besides his sister as she, with little attention, drove them home. He ignored the patterns she drew on his thigh - cold swirls of comfort he refused to accept.

'He smelt...' He paused to grasp for the right word. 'Incredible.'

Jasper's snide thought of '…you mean edible?' earned a quick and surprisingly vicious growl.

Alice, eyes snapping quickly between brothers to ascertain guilt, tutted at the blond. 'Jasper!' she scolded, with a brief twitch of her nose, before turning her attention back to the darker of the two males. 'I overheard some of the humans chattering about him today, about Harry.'

Edward felt his lips twitch. Harry. No doubt his sister had already taken the young foreigner to her heart, still and cold as it was. He tilted his head, an admission of his interest.

'They say he lives with his uncle out in the woods. That the uncle is some sort of chemist. Wants a bit of peace and quiet after a messy divorce in England.'

Edward frowned. 'That's all?'

'He doesn't have a girlfriend.' Two vampires turned to look at their lighter-haired sibling. Jasper shrugged, a hint of a smile pulling at his cheeks. 'I listen,' he chuckled by way of explanation.

'Of course you do, darling,' Alice said with a joyful expression as she pulled into the driveway of the Cullen residence. 'And you're going to keep listening. We all are. Right, Edward?'

Though he wouldn't give his sister the satisfaction, in his mind, he agreed that yes, he would be listening. Watching too.

------

Harry had walked, slowly and silently, back to the large stone cottage he shared with his surly former potions master deep in the woods. The day had been a trial, a painful reminder of what he'd lost to the war. The short, but horrendously destructive war which had torn through his delicately structured life in the wizarding world. Jess and Mike and the others were… nice. Jessica was sometimes nasty without intent, Mike forceful of opinion, but they were all normal teenagers nonetheless, happy and uncomplicated. It certainly made a change to be immersed in their lives, to be back amongst non-magical children, trying to recall the science and maths he had allowed to fall unheeded from his mind. It remained though, somewhere in the back. Childhood classes of elementary algebra, multiplication tables, Bunsen burners and schoolboy French filtered back throughout the day – simple academics that his magical lessons had made no demands upon.

The world, after all, did go on. His six year absence, no matter how it may have hurt him, could never rob him of his non-magical roots. It was reassuring.

He entered the cottage, letting his bag slide to the floor of the entrance hall. A grand staircase swept upwards, but before he could fully entertain the idea of crawling into bed with his new history text, his lover came barrelling towards him from the side-room he had allocated for his craft. Shoved into the wall, strong hands clamped over his collarbone, Harry felt more than heard the words that were shouted.

With herculean effort, he wrenched himself out of the older man's grip, placing flat palms against the wider chest and extending his arms, clawing back a sense of personal space. 'Severus,' he began, but was immediately overcome by the tirade of abuse that spilled from the man's mouth. In desperation, the boy reached up, his hands clinging to broad shoulders, and his mouth swiftly clamping to its match, formerly screwed up in anger. This he could do, he thought, with only slight disappointment. He pressed himself into the taller man's body, let one hand drift down a muscled, but tautly held chest. Sex was easy, so much easier than a conversation, than thinking properly about what he was doing, what he had lost. A strong grip crushed his wrist without warning and he was again slammed backwards.

He hoped he didn't let the fear he felt flash across his face – he knew that Severus didn't really want to hurt him – but knew he had failed when the other man's expression softened, regret setting into his features like rot into the hull of a boat.

'Where,' the voice was rough, scratchy, and warmed some place in the teen. 'Where were you?' Their eyes met, properly, for the first time in days. 'I woke up and you… I thought…'

'I'd left,' Harry whispered, completing the sentence. He felt uncomfortable. This… this relationship, this unholy union, or whatever it was, was not founded on conversation. The opposite. He let out a soft bark of laughter, mindful of his lover's darkening eyes. 'I just needed… I need to… start. Just start…' He trailed off and held the stare of the other. 'I enrolled at the school.'

The response was slow, bitten out. 'You did what?'

Harry considered his answer carefully. 'It isn't healthy. I can't just… I need to rejoin the world. I need to do something with my life.' He looked down, knowing that the next words would no doubt be scoffed at. 'I want to make Hermione proud.'

As expected, there was some sense of warped amusement in the response. 'The world? Some ridiculous muggle school?'

Harry felt his temper flare briefly. 'This is my world.' As soon as he said it he realised it was true. 'I was raised a muggle, as you say. I will always, in my heart, be muggle.' He hissed the word, still foreign in a way, despite six years. 'If you…' he calmed slowly and fought to find the right words. '…want me… you have to accept that I may never return to the wizarding world. Maybe I don't have a home anywhere, but I certainly don't have one there. Not now. Maybe I never did…' Again he trailed off, aware of the boundaries the conversation was crossing.

'I…' The potion maker also seemed to be struggling. Harry turned away, scooping up his fallen bag, his loot of textbooks, and began to climb the stairs. 'Maybe-' He turned back as the older man continued, still leant up against the wall, eyes raised to meet his own green gaze. 'I could start selling herbal remedies. There's a local tribe… werewolves of a kind. I've been wanting to work with them to find new variants on my Wolfsbane recipe. Perhaps work towards a cure.'

Harry felt his heart flutter. Werewolves.

'Have you… have there been any letters?'

He saw Severus fight a sneer, as he walked forward and climbed 'til their faces were level. Dark eyes settled on the juncture of his chin and neck and a heavy hand slid from his shoulder to settle upon his upper arm. Severus leaned in, and, not stroking or nuzzling – for Severus Snape, Harry reminded himself, would never stroke nor nuzzle – planted there a surprisingly soft kiss. 'The werewolf doesn't want you, child,' he whispered softly. 'Forget him.'

The small something within Harry that had begun to heal that day, broke softly into pieces once more. A hand raised his chin, and he kissed back without thought. 'Let's go to bed.'

-------

Severus was not a vain man, not a simpleton. He knew that the boy, the beautiful child, would not want him forever. Even in his sleep he turned away. He had seemed disconnected as Severus made love to him that evening. Not that he ever seemed… The older man didn't want to consider their physical relationship too deeply. He was, after all, not without feelings of guilt. He would approach the wolves. And he would get to the bottom of the boy's mental state, his hidden past. It grated on his nerves, itched at the back of his mind every time Harry submitted to his anger, melted into cold words. He would get to the bottom of it, but not tonight.


End file.
